grief

Grief doesn't come when it is convenient. It doesn't wait or even sometimes announce itself properly. Like a ghost, instead, it tickles the corner of our peripheral vision. It waits. And then it pounces, or hits like a ton of bricks. A physical response to grief tells us that we are feeling something. Call it bad, utter shite, feeling like balls, just generally bummed out, or my favourite: feeling like the blackness has swallowed you whole and you will never get out.

Maybe a song or a piece of art brings out an emotional response you weren't expecting. Maybe it's an interaction with a person, 3 or 4 lines you can't get out of your head, a scenario, repeating itself, an instrumental crescendo, breaking into silence.

What's in that silence?

White space. Me.

And.

Oh my.

Oh wow.

Oh boy. Apparently I'm grieving.

Realizing this as I'm walking down the hallway is potentially awkward. But the location of the hallway is important: I work in a hospital. And for whatever reason, probably because so many really awful things have happened in my life in hospitals, a hospital corridor full of people feels like a completely safe space to feel grief and maybe even cry.

Where do I feel it? My upper neck, in the paraspinal muscles, just out of reach of a good stretch. And in my lower back, my upper gluteus maximus muscles, and lower glutes, which have demanded more than their fair share of stretches today.

The who and what is a little more difficult to pin down. I'll give myself 4 more minutes to make a list and see what I come up with.
1. Grieving the craptacular endings and splits with ex boyfriends.
2. Grieving the loss of my party self.
3. Grieving the changes in my relationship with my husband in that we are now both grown up, satisfied with life and wondering, now what?
4. Grieving the lack of my own child.
5. Grieving the loss of my Dad's leg, but also feeling incredible gratitude for his current quality of life being so great and that he's doing so well.
6. Missing my grandparents.
7. Anticipatory grief.
8. Wondering how life would be different if Uncle Chris were still here.
9. Grieving the loss of my cat, a reality that won't hit until I'm at Mum's house.
10. Wondering if everyone I love moves to Estevan to die. Don't like that thought.
11. Grieving the loss of a few friendships and family relationships due to drugs.
12. Grieving my current lack of life goals.
13. Grieving how far we live from our sisters and brothers. And parents. (But not wanting to move - I love where we live.)

I guess that's it.

Wow. Okay.

So here's what I've learned:

Giving grief names/designations helps it feel remarkably better.